


Still

by Neurofancier



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: F/F, minimalist prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 21:32:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12756615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurofancier/pseuds/Neurofancier
Summary: After the (fake) funeral, Mrs. MacDonald and Bonnie find comfort in each other.Set during during Charlie and Mac Die (Part 2).





	Still

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to theaightspiderman for answering some English usage questions. All remaining mistakes are my own.

“Mrs. Mac? I am Dennis. Dennis Reynolds. Mac's friend?

“...the Dennis who tried to sleep with you that one time? No?

"Anyway. 

“I am afraid I have some bad news. There is no good way to say this. Mac has --

“ -- shut up, Dee, let me talk. No, no one cares about your stupid theories. Shut the fuck up, no one gives a shit! Dee, I'm trying to tell her that her son fucking killed himself!

“Oh, there you go. You made me say it. I hope you're happy! Was that piece of shit car worth it? Oh, yeah? Well, you know what? If I could, I would crash it again! How about that, huh? Yeah, go away! Fucking bitch.

“Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Mrs. Mac, we're going to have a small ceremony at Paddy's to commemorate his life. Very intimate and classy affair. Tuesday at five. Shall I write you down as coming to the funeral?

“...Mrs. Mac?

“Are you going to say anything? No?

“...Alright. Tuesday at five. See you there -- No, Dee, I don't care what the police report says! So what if the car wasn't destroyed? The car is made of metal! Were Mac and Charlie made of metal, Dee? Were they? Yeah, I thought so, you stupid b--”

The line goes dead. She puts the phone down. She takes a cigarette from the packet, lights it, and takes a long drag. The smoke burns all the way to her lungs.

-

It's five o'clock on a Tuesday. Paddy's hasn't changed much since the day they inaugurated it - Ronald in a sleeveless shirt and a clip-on tie, hair slicked back like Luther's. It's the same run-down furniture. The same bar flies. The same flat beer. 

Most of the chairs are empty. She sits there, cigarette dangling from between her lips as Ronald's friends fight. She can’t keep her eyes open.

After the funeral she stands outside the pub and smokes. It's a cold, sunny afternoon. Her skin feels too thin, stretched and dried up by the crisp weather. She’s lighting a new cigarette when a woman comes out of Paddy's. She’s the other guy’s mother. The short man had called her "Bonnie" after the ceremony. 

She watches Bonnie wipe at the bags under her eyes with a fabric handkerchief, wet and covered in mascara stains. Bonnie looks to be about her age. Her eyes are red and swollen, her face blotchy and lined. 

She digs inside her pocket for a tissue, wrinkled and stained nicotine-yellow. She hands it to Bonnie, and the other woman takes it with a quiet "Thank you."

She takes another drag from the cigarette and offers it to Bonnie. Bonnie takes it, too. She looks uncertain, cigarette filter pinched too tight between her thumb and her index, but when she brings it to her lips, she doesn't cough.

"You're Ronnie's mother, aren't you?" Bonnie says, giving the cigarette back. "It's so awful that they did that, isn't it? I knew my Charlie was having a hard time. He's such a sensitive boy. But I didn't know it was that bad! Did you?"

Bonnie looks at her expectantly. 

She lets the smoke sit in her lungs, releases it slowly. She nods her head toward a nearby bar. She arches her eyebrows, an interrogation mark.

Bonnie purses her lips, and nods.

-

"I keep thinking," Bonnie sniffles, dabs at the tears on her cheeks with another tissue, "if things had gotten that bad, why didn't he come to me? I'm his mom!" Her voice breaks and she covers her mouth as if to push the sound of her sob back in. "What does it say about me that he didn't think to ask for my help?" 

They're in a dive bar barely better than Paddy's. Music comes from a jukebox in one corner of the bar. Something mournful by Bruce Springsteen. His raspy voice fills the room. A fat man in a plaid shirt and a trucker hat sits to their left. Behind the bar, a bleached-blonde woman in her fifties has been wiping at the same glass for the last ten minutes.

"It's just so sad," Bonnie says, voice high like Ronald's friend used to go, when he was too excited.

She takes the last tissue out of her pocket and gives it to Bonnie. Bonnie blows her nose with it.

She taps the bar to get the waitress' attention and raises two fingers. The waitress puts two more shot glasses in front of them and fills them whiskey. She downs one of them, and after a few seconds, Bonnie does the same.

Bonnie doesn't cought then, either.

Under Bonnie's watchful eyes, she stands up. She takes her wallet out of her back pocket and leaves some bills on the bar.

"You're leaving already?" Bonnie asks, alarmed. Bonnie is drunk, but not as drunk as she should be, after drinking that much. 

She touches Bonnie's wrist. Bonnie looks down at her hand and then up at her eyes.

She tilts her head, lifts her chin, arches her eyebrows. Another question.

Bonnie swallows. She nods, and hops off the bar stool.

-

It's gone dark while they were drinking. She finds a parking spot one block away from her house and they walk the rest of the way. Bonnie isn't really drunk, now. She expects Bonnie to come to her senses any time now. She expects Bonnie to make her excuses and leave. But then she's unlocking the door, and then they are inside her house, inside her bedroom, on her bed, and Bonnie doesn't leave.

Bonnie sounds like she's crying, when she licks her open, but she keeps bucking her hips as if to urge her on. She tugs on her air, clenches her thighs around her head, and when she comes, it’s with a sighed 'oh'.

She doesn't expects Bonnie to return the favor, but she does. As her own face twists like Bonnie's fingers inside her, she remembers those old rumors about Mrs. Kelly, the one with that feral boy, and about what she did to keep them fed. 

She’s tougher than she looks, then.

She’ll have to be.

Afterwards they lie naked under her sheets, passing cigarette after cigarette back and forth.

"I just can't believe it," Bonnie says, voice quiet. "Why did they do it? Didn't they think about how much they'd hurt us?"

She takes another drag. The smoke spill out between her closed lips.

Outside, the garbage truck is making its rounds.

"I never wanted to be a mother," she says. Her voice crackles like the plastic wrap of a pack of cigarettes.

Bonnie looks at her, eyes wide. She stays silent for several long minutes.

"Well," Bonnie finally says, "you still were one."

She sucks on the cigarette filter. The cherry burns bright red in the darkness. Everything tastes like ashes.

**Author's Note:**

> The song that plays during the dive bar scene is Bruce Springteen’s The River, which sounds exactly how you’d expect Bruce Springteen to sound.
> 
> I’m aware I reused the plastic wrap line but tbh I’m not even sorry, it fits Mac’s mother so much better.
> 
> Any feedback is welcome, as always!


End file.
